


dancing to the end of love

by apolliades



Category: Inception (2010), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: ...whatever honestly, Affection, Drunkenness, Fluff without Plot, Id Fic, M/M, Short One Shot, Slow Dancing, Translation, literally so pointless & stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:30:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: “Come here, love. Please. Dance with me.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [dannsa gu deireadh a' ghaoil (dancing to the end of love)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537641) by [apolliades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades). 



> apologies for the kind of stiltedness & vague weirdness of voice of this, it's a translation from a language which does it's absolute best to resist being put into english (in my opinion anyway). dialogue especially it just. you can't. it just DOESN'T.
> 
> but enjoy it anyway if you can. also, for laughs, i'm including the google translate version in the second chapter, because it's fucking hilarious. mòran taing.

“So. We’ve had a drink.” Eames rose from the sofa, decisively. He looked at Tommy steadily.

“… _several_ drinks,” murmured Tommy. “…and what?”

“‘And what’?” mimicked Eames. There was a slightly unnerving glint to his eye even through the haze of half a bottle of whisky. “You said a drink and a dance, didn’t you?”

“No— I wasn’t serious—”

“You _said._ ”

Tommy was shaking his head. “Eames, no. I’m drunk, I can’t dance.”

Eames laughed; flushed and dishevelled as he was, he was radiant. “Are you _afraid?”_

Tommy glowered at him from where he sat slumped on the sofa. “No. I’m _drunk.”_

“Tommy. Stand up. Come here.” 

His objections fell on deaf ears; Eames persisted, reaching for him, smiling like the devil. As if Tommy’d ever been able to resist the devil. 

“Come here, love. Please. Dance with me.” 

Tommy rose, reluctantly, and went to him. Eames’ skin was warm from the booze and the fire as he caught his hand. 

“Thank you,” Eames beamed, pulling him close and showing his appreciation with sweet slow kisses, hot, slightly damp, across Tommy’s brow, each cheek, his chin. 

“You’re welcome.” Just a hint of sarcasm remained in Tommy’s voice, but it was hard to hold on to, with Eames holding on to him like this, like he was something precious to be cradled gently.

Eames laughed again, softly, fondly. He began to rock them, slowly, side to side, with his hands on the small of Tommy’s back, Tommy’s feet tucked between his. The barest of movements. Tommy bent his head to Eames’ shoulder.

“There’s no music,” he mumbled.

“Yes, there is. Listen.” 

Eames began to sing. So quietly; for Tommy alone.

“You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you…” 

Tommy laughed now, but gently, kindly. He lay his hands on Eames’ chest; Eames’ went to his hair, smoothed through, came to rest at the nape of his neck.

“You’re off-key.” 

“Shhh, doesn’t matter. I don’t care. You feel like heaven to touch…” 

Eames tightened his grip, slightly. He kept singing, even as his words faded into what was more of a hum, and even though Tommy was right, and he’d never quite been able to hold a decent tune.

“I wanna hold you so much.” 

In his arms, warm and safe — at least for that moment — Tommy was starting to fall asleep. 

After a while, Eames turned his head to whisper in his ear, pressing silent kisses there as punctuation. “You’re asleep on your feet like a horse.” 

Tommy’s sigh was hot against his neck. His eyes were closed. “I am a horse.” 

Eames smiled. The fondness he held for Tommy was so much sometimes it almost hurt. “No, light of my life. You’re my husband, remember?”

“…yeah.”

“Yeah. Okay, love, come on. We’re going to bed.”

“Bed?”

“Mm. Aren’t you tired?”

“No.”

He took Tommy to their bed anyway, half-walking half-carrying him, Tommy’s fingers in his shirt, cheek against his collarbone, all his wonderful warm weight in Eames’ arms. He flopped against the mattress without protest. 

“You’re really not? What are you, then?” 

Tommy was quiet for a moment, long enough for Eames to start to think he was properly asleep, now, but — 

“Drunk, you know. I’m drunk,” he said, muffled where his face was squashed against the duvet. “And…” 

Eames paused in unbuttoning his shirt. 

“And?”

Tommy opened his eyes, tired and bleary and _happy._ Happier than Eames ever saw him sober, and awake, but he'd take it.

“And in love.” 


	2. a cautionary tale against putting any meaningful quantity of gàidhlig through google translate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which eames rises out of the soup

"So. We got a drink. "Eames rises out of the soup, verily. He watched Tommy steadily. "... many drinks," said Tommy. "... and after that ...?"

"'And after that'?" Eames informed, "There was a drink and dance you said, was not it?"

"I did not say ... I was not in real ..."

"You said, indeed!"

Tommy was shaking her head. "To Eames, no. I'm cooked, I can not dance. "

Eames smiled. "Are you scared?"

Tommy looked at him. "No, it's drunk."

"A Thommy," said Eames, "Stand up. Come here. "

Tommy complained, but it was fine. Follow Eames on.

"Come here, her beloved. Please. Dance with me. "

Tommy rises, involuntarily, and went to Eames.

"You had a good mile," said Eames, ganging him and kissing her kisses, slowly on the corn, on his hair, on the chin.

"It's your life," said Tommy, with a cannabis of bitterness.

Eames smiled again, quietly and socially. He started tightly, slowly. Tommy chopped his head on his shoulder.

"We do not have music," he said.

"Yes," said Eames. "We have music. Listen. "

And he started singing. Very quietly sung; to Thommy only.

"You're just too good to be true. Can not take my eyes off of you ... "

Tommy smiled now, but calmly, with kindness. He lay hands on Eames, and Eames wound his hair.

"You're cool."

"Shhh, coma leat, and coma with me - you feel like heaven to touch ..."

Eames defeated a little. He continued to sing.

"I wanna hold you so much."

In his arms, warm and secure, Tommy was beginning to fall asleep.

In a while, he hooked in a Thommy ear. "You sleep on your feet like a horse."

Tommy sowed. His eyes were closed.

"I'm a horse."

A smile came on Eames' face. "No, to the lights of my life. You are my husband, is not it? "

"... yes."

"Of course. Okay, his mission, to us. We're going to bed. "

"Going to bed?"

"Mm. Are not you tired

"No."

He took Tommy to bed, whichever.

"Not really? What are you, in that case? "

Tommy was quiet enough. Eames started thinking he was sleeping for proof, but -

"Loistge, you know, read," said, "and ..."

"And?"

He opened his eyes, imaginatively, but happily. "In love."


End file.
